


Traditional

by akire_yta



Series: prompt ficlets [450]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Brotp, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 11:53:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11012904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akire_yta/pseuds/akire_yta
Summary: navigatorsnorth askedThe brotp and "why do we even have these?"





	Traditional

It was a tradition stretching back to their college days.  “I think we’re getting too old for this,” John groaned once the pain in his head subsided down to jackhammer levels.

Next to him, a spill of golden hair was all he could see of Penny. The covers were destroyed, the suite not much better.  John could see bottles on every flat surface, every drawer and door in the place hanging open.

As John started his post-Penny bender checklist, he realized he was wearing one shoe and one sock, but not on the same foot.  His pants were on, but unzipped, and who knew where his belt was now.  “How,” he asked the ceiling.  “Am I still wearing my tie, but no shirt?”

Penny groaned again, but a questing hand appeared from under the covers to grope around until it landed on him, where it proceeded to pat him sympathetically.  “I think,” she said, her head surfacing blearily to land on the top of the pillow.  “You were proving a point?  Perhaps?”

John’s mouth tasted like he’d french kissed a walrus.  The fact he couldn’t immediately dismiss that as something that had actually happened was par for the course on nights out with Penny.

Next to him, Penny was wriggling.  “What on earth?” she muttered, mostly to herself. Finally, she sat up, dislodging the covers to reveal her creased and stained dress and torn stockings.  “Why do we have _two_  of these?” she asked, pulling out the traffic cones, one after the other.  “I retract the question, why do we have these at all?”

A memory bobbed to the surface of his hungover haze.  “I think you thought it lonely, and that we needed to find it a friend.”

Penny groaned, pitched the traffic cones out of bed with two rubbery thumps, and faceplanted onto John’s bare stomach.  “Why do we do this to ourselves?” she mumbled into his belly.

He stroked her hair kindly.  “Tradition demands it.”

“Screw tradition,” she muttered, her breath damp on his skin.  “Next time, let’s just go bowling.”

Another memory surfaced.  “I think that’s how we ended up finding the first cone.”

Penny groaned and pulled the covers back over her head.


End file.
